


Stelk

by Etharei



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M, Recipes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-13
Updated: 2006-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/pseuds/Etharei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It was indicative of just how tired from work he got these days that he’d gone as far as putting his briefcase on his worktable before he noticed that his loft had been invaded by potatoes.</i> Written for Peculiar Prompts, prompt: "stelk".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stelk

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** "Stelk"  
>  stelk [stelk]: a dish made of onions and mashed potatoes, with a large lump (often an entire pound) of butter or lard in the middle of it. It's an Irish dish and is also called _champ_.

It was indicative of just how tired from work he got these days that he’d gone as far as putting his briefcase on his worktable before he noticed that his loft had been invaded by potatoes. He stood, bewildered and rooted (hah, that was _not_ a pun, thank you fucking much) to the spot, and only then registered the blond head bent industriously over the counter. “What the fuck are you doing?” he barked, and added a little lamely, “Here?”

“Making stelk!” Justin answered matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“Ah.” Brian usually knew better than to try to deal with things when he was feeling overwhelmed, so he calmly went into his bedroom and changed out of his work clothes into something more casual. Jeans and a wifebeater- clothes for staying at home, because all of a sudden he felt quite sure that Babylon could survive a night without him. Probably. He then went to stand on the other side of the counter from Justin, quietly observing the younger man’s activities in lieu of a discussion.

A large pot full of water sat on the stove, and there was a great pile of potatoes on his stainless steel counter-top. Said pile was slowly decreasing as spud after spud went under Justin’s knife, lost its skin, and was tossed into a bowl. Torn between bemusement and annoyance, Brian idly thought of the potato blights suffered by Ireland and how the brown lumps in Justin’s hands must have once been worth more than their weight gold. Their Irish heritage had hardly been a common topic of conversation in the Kinney household, but Brian could recall the old man once mentioning eating stelk with his mother’s cousin’s family or some shit like that. Back when they were still communicating with the wider family.

Brian shook his head, wondering why he was thinking about his ‘family’ when his- Justin was in the kitchen. Especially when Justin was _supposed_ to be in New York. But now that he’d had time to leapfrog over the initial shock, Brian felt reluctant to start the interrogation just yet. He couldn’t even find the energy or reason to mind the present situation all that much. Besides, even if he made a big deal about it, Justin was still probably going to stay and finish cooking the fucking stelk, now that the potatoes were busily boiling away in the pot (in salted water, Justin helpfully informed him), so what was the point in aggravating them both?

The fact that Justin was currently surrounded by sharp knives and various other throw-able kitchen utensils may have also contributed towards Brian’s choice to remain silent for the moment.

Justin looked up, met his eyes, and was grinning like a pleased cat when he returned his attention to his boiling potatoes; Brian caught his own reflection on the shiny side of the toaster and saw that his face had settled into a soft, half-smiling expression. And he couldn’t find the energy to mind that, either.

Well, mind too much, anyway.

As… _not utterly unpleasant_ it was to watch Justin cooking in his kitchen, Brian had fully intended to wander off to his worktable and get some things done.

But then he caught a tremble in Justin’s right arm while the young man was draining the just-cooked potatoes, and long legs automatically covered the distance around the counter to Justin’s side. “Let me help,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine, Brian,” Justin sighed. “My hand should be good for another half-hour, and the hard part was the peeling, which is done.”

“Justin.”

The blond let out a long-suffering sigh, but handed Brian the cutting board, a knife and pushed over a stack of spring onions. “Chop these into approximately half-inch pieces.”

“What a happy coincidence it is that I happen to be very good with measuring inches,” Brian commented, smirking. Justin chuckled and added a colander to the bowl of potatoes.

Once Brian finished the chopping- or, rather, Justin figured that he’d cut enough and confiscated the cutting board before Brian could measure out another set of perfect half-inch pieces of spring onion stalk - the little green slices went into a new empty pot that Brian was pretty damned sure he didn’t own. Full cream milk followed, then Justin brought the mixture to boil. After letting it simmer for about 3 minutes (“In order for the onion to flavor the milk” Justin had said, to which Brian had replied, “Who the fuck wants onion-flavored milk?”), the potatoes were gently rolled into the pot. Finally a very generous amount of butter was mixed in, during which Justin studiously ignored Brian’s exaggerated cringing.

A masher materialized on the counter- again, something Brian was pretty sure he’d never used before in his life, much less actually bought- and Justin squared his shoulders to tackle the potatoes. Sighing, Brian stepped in and silently took the masher and bowl from Justin. The younger man wisely didn’t say anything, though he sported an amused smile as he watched Brian work on the potatoes in between cleaning away the mess in the kitchen.

“You know I’m not eating this, right?” Brian said, enthusiastically grounding the masher into the bowl. There was something oddly relaxing about squashing the pale little balls into flat mush; it was certainly much healthier than, say, beating a hetero human being to a pulp, and he could sort of begin to understand why Justin liked to cook. “One bite of this would take a week to work off at the gym.”

“No, these days I can spot an exercise in futility when I see one,” Justin replied from somewhere behind him. “No, I’m dropping half of it at Debbie’s and half of it at Michael’s. It’ll be our St. Patrick’s Day gift to them.”

“ _Our_?” Brian made an incredulous face. “Since when did _we_ give St. Patrick’s Day gifts to anyone? Fuck, do people even give gifts beyond a plastic clover or a lucky leprechaun sticker?”

Something that felt like a wooden spatula swatted him on the ass, making him jump a little from the unexpectedness of it. “I learned the recipe from my roommate and I wanted to try it. So I did. Besides, you’ve never cared about what other people thought or did, and it’s not as if anyone’s really going to think that _you_ made it.”

“So you pretty much came here just to mess up my kitchen and induce heart attacks among our friends.”

“I wouldn’t say _just_ that.”

Hearing Justin’s voice develop a different quality to it, Brian glanced over his shoulder and saw the young man staring at him. Specifically, at his arms. Long arms left bare by the black wifebeater he was wearing, his deltoids and biceps bulging slightly with the effort of grinding potatoes. The gym had been a good reason for him to avoid spending too much time at the too-empty loft. Brian raised an eyebrow and smirked; as much as the younger man loved to eat, there was little doubt that the look of hunger he was directing at Brian had nothing at all to do with the fucking potatoes.

Holding his eyes, Justin slowly approached him. “Brian,” he whispered, reaching out to trace a hand over the muscles standing out on Brian’s shoulder and upper arms. “You look-“ He couldn’t seem to find the words, which pleased Brian all the more.

“I’ve been busy,” Brian said in low voice, amazed as usual at ease with which the heat between them could grow. A slight shudder passed through Justin, and the blond moved in so that their bodies were touching; Brian sucked in a breath when he felt Justin’s hard length pressing into his thigh through layers of cotton.

“Brian,” Justin whispered again, rubbing the prominent bulge in his crotch against Brian’s ass as he trailed wet, clumsy kisses along Brian’s shoulder and up the back of his neck. “I miss you so much when I’m in New York, Brian. Fuck, my entire body misses you. My hands miss your hair, your face, your fingers. My mouth misses your tongue, your cock, your balls- even the fake one. My nipples miss your mouth, your teeth, your hair. My dick _daydreams_ about your mouth, your hands, your ass when it feels particularly sinful.” He took hold of Brian’s left hand from where it had been holding the side of the bowl, and placed it right on his butt. “Do I even have to tell you what my ass, my perfect, sweet, _tight_ ass, misses?”

Growling, Brian dropped the masher and turned around completely, pulling Justin to him and forcing his tongue into that hot, willing mouth. Not that he had to do much forcing, when Justin was practically sucking Brian’s tongue into his mouth and jumping onto Brian and trying to tear both their clothes off with one hand. They didn’t even try to make for the bed; the two simply collapsed onto the kitchen floor in a frenzy of limbs.

Incredibly horny and with a writhing, willing Justin beneath him, Brian pushed back the feeling that he was making everything even harder, that each time they met Justin got a step closer to making him break. And he _will_ break- one day his mouth will ask Justin to come home, or he’ll finally go to New York. But he was damned if he didn’t go down fighting, and he was pretty sure that Justin understood that, too, since it was part of the Kinney character that Justin had moved to New York to preserve. In the meantime, there was a physical manifestation of _hard_ to attend to, and the funny thing was that this, _this_ was the part of _them_ that has always been easy.

“What about the potatoes?” Brian mumbled, grabbing hold of a few layers of clothing and pulling them clean off of Justin. Buttons, he decided, were highly overrated and a complete waste of time.

“It’s not the fucking potato blight, Brian,” Justin responded, rolling Brian onto his back and sliding down his body. As soft, familiar lips began mouthing his balls, Brian closed his eyes and whispered, “I miss you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> The main recipe used here has been shamelessly taken from: http://cookery.newarchaeology.com/champ.php but I have also compared it with other recipes and have used small elements from those.


End file.
